


Upon the Withered Heath

by Amarthril



Series: Romantic Poetry [1]
Category: Wuthering Heights - Emily Brontë
Genre: Gothicism, Poetry, Romanticism, Sonnets, and over-dramatic, fanpoetry, ghost!Catherine, its all very spiritual, originally posted on my tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2016-08-13
Packaged: 2018-08-08 12:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7757674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amarthril/pseuds/Amarthril
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mournful song acutely pined<br/>For he whom she left long ago<br/>But lo! Their souls were yet entwined</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon the Withered Heath

Upon the withered heath that night,  
The waif bewailed her rhapsody.  
Ebony hair filled with starlight,  
Her presence from which mortals flee.  
The mournful song acutely pined,  
For he whom she left long ago.  
But lo! Their souls were yet entwined,  
Thus – with sorrow she was bestow.  
So in anguish the wight wailed;  
“I shall haunt thee throughout the nights!”  
Summoning her strength she rallied,  
To send the winds to haunt the Heights,  
With desperate fervour she was filled,  
by the madness which she had tilled.

On the horizon the storm came,  
Colossal fury rolling in,  
Still yet the beast it could not tame,  
Nor yet forgive him of his sin.  
His eyes wild in temper fey,  
Skin rendered ghoulish in lament,  
The sleepless nights had made him grey.  
And still the wind would not relent.  
He must remind his heart to pound,  
To thwart his demise so crav’ed.  
Hark! That his single wish resound;  
To hers his soul shall be enslav’ed.  
If she would but cease her torment,  
Ever his soul with hers be spent. 

Rain lashed through the gaping window,  
Icy drops cool’d his heated face.  
As his howls reach’d their crescendo,  
Not even the Almighty Grace,  
Could quell the tempest of his breast.  
None but one might ease his passion.  
So he liveth a pig possessed,  
Rememb’ring her face so ashen.  
And reaching out upon that sill,  
He wept into the coming gloom.  
A declaration rending shrill,  
Anguish so deep it would entomb.  
“Come back Cathy! Come back to me!”  
“Nay,” the wind replied, “Come to me.”

Upon the withered heath at night,  
To a witness spectres appear,  
Perhaps he might retreat in fright,  
To behold the phantoms so near!  
And so in blissful peace they stray,  
The hidden pathways of the plain,  
Where once as children they did play,  
At long last heav’n they did attain.  
Upon the heath they remained,  
Till their tale fell into lore.  
The peaceful solitude maintained  
An ancient refrain, Nevermore -  
The man and waif separated.  
From the earthly plane; liberated.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this poem a little while ago when I was studying Romanticism. I love the spiritual relationship between Catherine/Heathcliff and I still find it so much fun to use the old-fashioned hyperbolic language! Please review and tell me what you think :)


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